


Good Morning, Loki! It's Monday!

by EverythingisBlue



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: AU - Vlogbrothers, All The Ships, Alternate Universe - Human, Bad Jokes, Bad Puns, Big Brother Thor, Brother Feels, Crack, Darcy Lewis & Loki Friendship, Disney References, Dorks, Family Feels, Female Friendship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied Relationships Everywhere, Loki Has Issues, Male-Female Friendship, Marvel Cameos, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Occasional Healthy Sibling Relationship, Other, Platonic Relationships, Work In Progress, YouTube, diverts canon off cliff, in which I Do What I Want
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-01-09 04:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverythingisBlue/pseuds/EverythingisBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor Odinson is a Norwegian professional weight lifter, stunt man and all around good fellow, who is happily married to astrophysicist Jane Foster and has an adorable one year old daughter, Frida, and currently lives in relative comfort in Canada. </p><p>His adoptive brother Loki is an unemployed struggling artist and musician, dabbling in so many things, who has Fenrir the dog and a few flighty 'friends', and still lives in Oslo, the city he grew up in, in a shitty apartment. His relationship with his brother is... complicated. On his 25th birthday, he receives a camera in the post, and a Youtube login.</p><p>Thus begins their Brotherhood 2.0.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Happy Birthday!!

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I often have bad ideas, but honestly this is one of the better ones. Probably. But I can't stress this enough: I've no idea what I'm doing. This just seemed better than like, nothing. Or homework. Speaking of which, I have to admit that I'm trying to focus on school so I won't write much I guess?? ps I've no idea how Youtube really works.
> 
> But basically, Youtube is weird and so are brothers.

_Bzzzzzzzz!!!_

The shrill ring punched through his ears, skewered into his skull, and Loki whined, curling up into himself, “Go away!”

Burying his head beneath the covers, a dull thud marched on behind his eyes and, as he gradually awoke, he felt someone pawing at his cheek, whimpering. Its’ wet nose pressed into his cheekbone, and Loki groaned, flapping a lanky arm in the dog’s general direction, “Away, Fenrir, away.”

_Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!_

“No!”

Fenrir howled, but it didn’t mask the alarm as it rang again.

“One more time, I swear on my grave-”

_Bzz!!_

Loki seized the pillow and flung it down upon the mattress as he scrambled to his feet and stormed over to the intercom, stabbing the button with his finger, then snarled,

“You don’t need to ring so much!”

The tinny voice on the other end wavered, “I’ve a-a package for a Mr Odinson-”

“I’ll come down.”

Yanking his finger from the button, he sighed, dug around for a pair of jeans and his hoodie, and having put them on, headed down stairs with Fenrir at his heels. In the small entrance hall stood a balding, overweight man in a wrinkled baby blue shirt, a flimsy badge pinned to his pocket, with navy trousers not big enough for him and scuffed shoes. Although shabby, he appeared too clean to belong in the dingy corridor. In one hand was a clipboard, in the other the package.

“I have to sign?” Loki asked, top lip curling.

“It’s international,” the delivery man answered as he offered the board to Loki. Begrudgingly, he took the board and signed, then took the package and retreated back to his apartment. Fenrir rushed over back to bed as Loki slumped beside him on the mattress, and tore at the sellotape holding both tabs down. The moment it came away, a myriad of Styrofoam peanuts attacked him, invading perhaps every inch of the bed, covering him and Fenrir in a fake snow.

"Fenrir, no," he chided, tapping the dog's nose as it attempted to chew a peanut. Looking back in the box, he discovered that, beneath the padding, there was another box, smaller and wrapped in shiny blue paper. Attached to it was a tag that upon inspection, read, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY BROTHER!"

Loki's palm smacked his forehead, almost impulsively. Reading on, it said, "Youtube - username: vloginsons; password: brodinsons4lyfe."

This time, when his head found his hands, he meant it. Then he ripped the tag off and unwrapped the box. On the side was printed, "Canon EOS 600D."

He opened it and pulled out a hulking piece of equipment, which could scarcely fit in both hands, complete with a much too giant lens that enlarged his nose as he stared into it. The dog cocked its head and made a curious noise, as Loki did the same.

"We could sell it," he told Fenrir, "it must be worth a fortune.”

As if responding, the dog picked up the tag in its’ teeth and dropped it in Loki’s lap. Setting the camera down, he held the tag, now slobbery, between his thumb and forefinger. Then he got up and strolled over to the table, where his laptop lay. As soon as he logged in, he opened his browser and went to Youtube, typing the username and password. When the page refreshed, it presented him with a new home page, one with videos from subscriptions and suggestions. In the corner of the screen was a bell, with a red notification stamped upon it. He clicked on it and a small bubble opened, listing all of the users who ‘commented on your video!’

“My what?” He mumbled, clicking the comments. It brought up a different screen, showing a loading video. When it began, Thor popped up on screen, grinning, and Loki rolled his eyes.

“Good Morning, Brother, it’s Monday!” Thor shouted into the camera, overwhelming the laptop speakers. From off-screen, Thor placed a party hat on his head and a champagne popper in both hands, then set it off with a weak pop, “AND IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY!”

“Why is he speaking English?”

“So, I’ve had a wonderful idea for your birthday. As you know, we’ve not spoken much since, well, since Mo-” Loki skipped ahead, “-And therefore, seeing as you don’t have Skype and international calls are expensive, I thought we’d vlog to each other. I make a video, you make a video, and it goes on and on, and we might even get closer!”

Loki pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed so deeply his lungs could have collapsed.

“I’m just gonna bring you up to date here,” he continued, picking the camera off its’ tripod and walking about. He sauntered into the kitchen and showed the world his wife, Jane Foster, as she attempted to feed their child.

“Say hello, Jane,” Thor called, startling her a little. She looked right into the camera, smiling warmly, and Loki found himself grimacing.

“Hi, Loki. Happy Birthday,” she said, “if you haven’t slipped off the face of the earth, that is.”

 _Charming._ Moving on quickly, Thor turned the attention to his daughter, Frida, who smashed a bowl of baby food across the high chair tray, “Wave to your uncle, Fri!”

The infant looked up at the camera and revealed a toothless, gummy grin to the screen, grabbing at the air with sticky hands and happily managing to squeak “Nya!” at him. Her brown eyes, so much like her mother’s, shone, but that smile was practically her father’s. For a drooling, crying, eating and pooping machine, she was fairly cute. As the infant giggled, Thor set the camera down on the kitchen counter and, with one hand, picked her up and held her in his palm. In the background, Jane hissed, but both father and daughter were laughing.

“One year old and she still fits!” He boasted, putting her back. Then he took the camera back and walked with it as he spoke.

“So, that’s us. We’re all good here and, um… Hey, what’s the difference between a musician and a park bench?”

“Don’t-”

“A park bench can support a family,” he laughed. Despite himself, Loki smiled. “I kid, I kid, I really do. I miss you, Loki, honestly. You might not be game for my antics or you don’t care, but either way, I don’t want to lose my brother. At least one video, that’s all I ask. Just let me know you’re ok.”

Loki slammed the laptop closed, then turned around. There was Fenrir with the camera between his jaws, spittle dripping from the lens.

“Hey!” He snapped, “Drop it!”

Obediently, it did and Loki went to pick it up. He wiped off the screen and then, like trying to solve a Rubik’s cube, looked for the ‘ON’ switch.


	2. Satisfaction's Not in My Nature

The shower stopped as soon as he woke up and in the same moment, Thor felt a space beneath his arm, felt the sheets turning cold. Still half-asleep, hair in his eyes, he mumbled, “Jane?”

The bathroom door slid aside and she appeared, a towel wrapped around her torso, plaiting her wet hair to one side. The two smiled at one another.

“You always look really good in the mornings.”

“Yes, I do. Besides, you tell me everyday,” she said warmly. After a short pause, she added, “You should probably get up soon.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s getting pretty late.”

He groaned in response and curled back in bed like a cat, as Jane rolled her eyes and hopped on the bed, right above him. Leaning in, her hands smoothed around his midriff, “Come on, get up. You have to pick Sif up from the airport, and I have to work.”

With a minute, feigned whimper, he replied, “Later. Stay, please.”

“Thor, get out of bed.”

“Alright, alright,” he said, rolling onto his side. His laptop rested in its’ sleeve on her bedside table. He wanted to reach over, get it out, check his emails or Youtube or something. But, having lasted a week without it, he got up and traipsed over to the bathroom. When he came back washed and dressed, it was gone and so was Jane. Then Frida wailed.

“Thor!” Jane called from the study, but he was already gone, speed walking down the corridor.

“Got it!” He replied, rounding the corner and rushing into the nursery. Gently, he scooped Frida up, head cradled in one hand, and kept her close to his chest, but still she cried. The only thing that pleased her was for him to perform a weird jig, skipping lightly from foot to foot while bouncing her about as gently as possible.

It was Jane who discovered it first, but by now Thor had it down to an art. Both had concluded that she’d be a dancer when she grew up. Or she could race dirt bikes. Or both.

This was one of the perks of a month off; being able to hold his daughter and knowing he’d be able to do it tomorrow. However, and it’d just occurred to him, there was always another side of the coin: having nothing to do. Midway through breakfast, after trying to feed her and not really succeeding, he made a To-Do list. And, in the course of the day, he saw it through - he went for a run, encircling the whole of the park and back again; did laundry; made lunch for the three of them; and played with Frida until the clock struck five and his phone alarm went off.

"Let's go see Aunty Sif!" He said in a sing-song voice, lifting Frida into his arms and sauntering out the house. He placed her in her car seat then set off, soon ending up in inevitable rush hour traffic. The timing couldn’t really be helped, so instead of complaining he pressed on through slush-covered streets, bad driving, and bad Top 40 hits on a radio station that seemed to repeat himself.

Although it took a half hour to find a space after a two hour jam, despite only living on the opposite side of town to the airport, he still walked about the arrivals hall babe-in-arms looking for Sif with a smile on his face. She was sat across from a Tim Horton’s, coffee in hand. The fluorescents had drained a little of her colour. A scarf was already looped around her neck and a thick winter jacket laid over the handle of her suitcase, as she glanced about the terminal. When she laid eyes on Thor, she tipped her paper cup to him and with a surprisingly warm smile said, “When in Rome.”

He opened his free arm for her and she seemed to relent, got to her feet and wrapped her arms around his torso as his embrace closed around her.

“It’s so good to see you.” After a pause, he asked, “How was the flight?”

“Fine.” Her answer was muffled by his shirt.

“You ready to go?”

Sif nodded as she stepped back, let Thor take her suitcase and then the two walked out to the parking lot. She took shotgun, he strapped Frida in and then they drove home, without encountering the same traffic as earlier.

After some silence, he asked, “So… how’s Darcy?”

“Darcy is Darcy,” Sif replied, still smiling. “Add: ‘Jetlagged and somewhat confused.’”

“But she’ll love it there. Did you tell you what she’s doing?”

“She can’t, supposedly. All she could tell me was that it was well-paid.”

“Well, that’s gotta be good.”

Sif nodded, humming a little, as she stared out the window, then asked, “Do you actually think your video idea will work?”

“Yes.”

“But you know how he is, what he’s done-”

“I do.”

Sif didn’t reply. Thor felt his hands shifting on the steering wheel, uncomfortable in his seat. His tongue was dry and his throat thick but his voice urged him to speak. Somehow, it expected him to use words that weren’t there.

When they were younger, neither was ever awkward around the other but now, now a strange, stifled air had enveloped them. What he hated was not knowing how to lift it. It seemed natural, like fog, and he was powerless. And she was his - Cousin? He'd known her for as long as he could remember, but never been certain of how they were related. But he could just ask her later. She had to be an extended relation at least - they were so… close.

Scratch that, he decided as he pulled into his driveway. As soon as he braked, she unbuckled and got out, then grabbed her bag and walked inside, all while he was still sat in the driver’s seat, staring blankly. Maybe it would pass, he wondered.

Frida gurgled in the backseat, her snores like a kitten’s meow, so he took her in and placed her in her cot, on the way noticing the study door ajar. He headed down the corridor and popped his head in, to find Jane in the exact same place she’d been when he left.

“Hey, Jane, have you seen my laptop?”

She stood up, opened one of the draws and held it out to him, “Go on.”

“You’ve checked, haven’t you?”

“No, no. I’ve been busy all day. But now I’m not and now you’re home, so I thought now’d be a good time.”

He took it, sat down and set up, the desk trembling as he jiggled his foot against the floor and shook the laptop with it. From behind him, Jane placed both hands on his shoulders, trying to calm him.

Once it was completely ready, Thor launched his browser and clicked around a bit, but his inbox was empty, bar a few emails from Amazon; the Youtube homepage had no new notifications; and no other social network had anything either.

It’d been a week, he reminded himself. A week. That was all he’d needed really, a week. Maybe he was pushing him, but if he’d wanted, Loki would have figured these things out. Hell, if he was really into it he’d have done his level best to out-do Thor; they were always that way as kids.

Thor looked out, saw the slush splattered against the window pane. He closed the laptop down and walked out to the hall, unhooking his coat from the peg. Behind him, he heard Jane ask, “Where are you going?”

“Out,” he mumbled, closing the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki letting people down is to his character what death is to life - bloody inevitable, no matter how much you deny it, and only slightly less fatal.
> 
> I know it seems short, but I've been busy and I'm still not sure what I'm doing. On the bright side, it's much better developed than it was previously - or at least it should be, eventually. If you liked that, comments and kudos are very welcome.


	3. Family

Loki gripped his mug as he downed the ninth cup of coffee, not relaxing his hold until he slammed it back down again. The screen stared back at him and he shoved it closed, then raked his hands through his knotted hair. Nails digging into the scalp, he sighed and let his head sink beneath his knees. It was just a video, but even the slightest mistake got under his skin.

Of course, it had to look better than Thor’s. It just had to. The key to that lay in the editing - while Thor could flaunt his giggling child, his wife and his comfortable life, Loki could boast a dog trained to trail after him, a shoebox apartment sandwiched between an old woman and a sex addict, his good looks, and his superior editing skills. Cute babies were just snacks to occupy the mind before the real meal came.

In the middle of his mental postulating, the buzzer squawked and eventually, Loki answered, absent-mindedly buzzing the visitor in then returning to his work. Before he’d had even sat back in his chair, the visitor rapped against the door repeatedly. The noise crescendoed until Loki answered it.

“And you are?”

Before him stood a man in a dark suit, sunglasses in January, and a five o’clock shadow cut so short that Loki stared at it for a while, wondering if he’d shaved the follicle off.

“You’re going out.”

“But I hardly know you,” Loki crooned, batting his eyelashes for good measure. The man did not reply. “Oooh, forceful and serious. Just my type.”

“Sir, I have to rush you. Mr Borsson is waiting."

Upon the mention of that name, Loki rolled his eyes, got his coat and shoes, and walked out, with Fenrir following. The man, noticing Fenrir, pointed and said, “The dog stays here.”

“The dog follows. I can’t get rid of him.”

“Fine,” the lacky grunted. Loki followed him out of the building until he stopped in front of a black car parked on the pavement, so shiny it stood out from the battered, rust red car next to it.

“Surprised it’s still there?” Loki asked, grinning at his own joke. The man’s expression remained unchanged as he opened the back door and gestured for him to sit. Loki obliged, slumping in the back seat as Fenrir leapt over his lap and curled up beside him.

Then they drove away and the outskirts soon mutated into the wealthier inner city. Skyscrapers and office blocks grew from the houses and apartments, mingling with snow-decked trees that looked as though they’d been plucked from a travel brochure. The car pulled up in front of a building made almost exclusively of glass, windows stretching from top to bottom. They got out and Loki followed the guy across the reception, to the lifts and then to the restaurant on the top floor. One look at his new surroundings and Loki felt his eyes roll back into his head. It was awful.

The decor was a blend of silver and white with clean-cut corners, dappled watercolours in shades of frigid ocean blue hung on the spotless ivory walls. The white was overwhelming, so annoyingly pure. The same shade as jets, yachts, expensive laptops and cars, rich desserts, clean plates and tablecloths, and clean walls and clean sheets and clean shirts still warm from the laundry. His hands curved into fists. Catching a waft of food from the open kitchen hatch, he could swear the smell was familiar and his mouth watered.

A skylight above reflected the cold winter sun back into every crevice possible and basked the diners in a snowy glow, wrapping them in their own self-importance. They were mostly business people in various shades of grey, no doubt with names like duck egg, signet feather, storm cloud, gun metal - so pretentious it was revolting - and the kind of people who looked down upon him. Many did; he clocked a few sour sideways glances as he walked through the rows of tables.

In the corner at the back was Odin, sat at a round table for two with a glass of red wine, watching the procession in a well-tailored suit that Loki envied. It managed to blend into his surroundings, so that the skin of his face and the rings on his fingers were the only things that stood out. But as always, what truly stood out was his golden ‘eyepatch: a thin disk covering his eye socket. Beneath it was nothing but scar tissue, and legend had it that he’d sacrificed it for enough knowledge and wisdom to then bend the Norwegian oil industry to his will and make himself stinking rich. In those days, he was an Icelandic playboy ready to swindle as many people as he could. Now, he made his wrinkled hands comfortable in the pockets of the most influential politicians while having the nerve to bemoan Loki’s habits.

It was doubtless that was the reason they were both there, thanks to Thor’s little venture bringing him back under Odin’s radar. And he’d only just slipped free.

“Ooh, I feel under-dressed,” he joked, slipping into the seat. Odin sighed. “I mean, nice restaurant, you’re well-tailored… If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this is a date.”

“Be serious for once,” he commanded.

“I wonder dear Jens would think.”

“Not now, Loki.”

“What?” With feigned innocence, he ignored the other’s glassy glare and added, “I’m only curious. If I humiliate you so much, you should have just pulled the plug.”

“We both know I didn’t make that decision.”

His voice took on a gruffer tone as he asked, “What do you want?”

Odin tossed a stuffed file across the table, paper poking out of the open flap. Loki caught a word or two - ‘contract’, ‘drunkenness’, ‘ultimatum’.

“As you know, I have supported you financially for the past seven years, and as a father for the eighteen years before that, even though I should no longer. However, you continue to be irresponsible and reckless, and you drink my money away. Recently, I’ve become aware of my son’s renewed interest in you, in the hope that you are still his brother, therefore-”

“You’re protecting your assets.” He eased the top sheet from the folder, and the rest of its’ contents followed - photos, receipts, a toxicology report, his CV - and spilled out onto the table. One in particular was very unflattering, and he winced at it before sliding it under something else, then started to read.

“In short,” Odin interrupted, “It details three points. First, you are to attend a support group. I found one that suits you.”

He passed Loki a card, which he then skim read (‘Addicts Anonymous, for the greatest of problems’) and said, “Oh, how kind of you. I simply can not wait to hold the sweat-drenched hands of strangers and recite the serenity prayer.”

Frowning, Odin continued, “Furthermore, you will be shadowed by a sober companion of my choosing for thirty days, or more if necessary.”

“Can I meet them?”

“No. Finally, you will find a job.”

“If I don’t?”

“If you do not by July 1st, I will cut you off.”

“You can’t!” He bellowed, practically leaping forward and dragging the chair with him. It cried out against the flooring and the noise radiated around them, cutting off all background noise. Cutlery rattled against plates as everyone stopped to stare.

“You’re an embarrassment.”

“You’re an insult,” Loki spat. As he rose to his full height, the chair fell behind him. It stayed there with its arms and legs in the air as he moved closer to Odin, took his wineglass in hand and, with what strength he had, crushed it. Shards splintered into his palm and wine broke against the open cuts like rushing waves. Ignoring the stinging pain now surging in his arm and the shocked gasps and mutters that billowed him around him, he marched out of the restaurant, out of the building and down the street.

As he passed a car, he heard a familiar howl and looked behind him. Fenrir had his nose squashed into the window and watched Loki, with an odd snarl that looked almost impatient. Loki glanced around. A few paces from him was a streetlamp, chained to which was someone’s bike. Approaching it, he saw that in its’ basket was a bottle of liquor and one thick boot and then turned back to Fenrir and motioned for the dog to get back. Fenrir took the hint and with a quick peek behind and ahead of him, Loki seized the bottle and smashed the car window, then snatched the shoe and broke the rest of it so that no shard remained. Fenrir leapt through and followed when Loki ran. The pair sprinted down streets, across busy roads, out of back alleys and side streets until reaching a Metro station and disappearing into the rush hour crowds. They took the first train going in their direction and after weeding through crowds, he found a seat left for ‘the elderly, disabled and pregnant’ and took it.

It was then he could at last allow himself to really feel the pain in his hand. Curious, his hand withdrew from his pocket, fingers unfurled and glass the colour of rubies dripped from it. He crushed it under foot. Tears tickled his eyes and he blinked them back, focusing on removing the remaining splinters. Around him, passengers turned up their noses, vanished behind newspapers, tuttered, stared and even moved away. Good. He concentrated more on the pain, on the scarlet of his blood contrasting as it seeped into the lines on his palms and fingers and how it looked in the upper epidermis, how the glass had shattered and how he imagined it was Odin’s head or neck or heart; most of all, he savoured the way pure, clean anger buzzed in his veins like a good, clean drug because it just wasn’t fair his life should be so restricted, how dare Odin do that, how dare he.

Yet no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t fool himself and the voice in his head prevailed: _You deserve this, and more. This is a fraction of the pain you caused Mother, Leah, Thor; a fraction of what you deserve_.

The crying came without him noticing, until Fenrir nudged his way into Loki’s embrace as if wanting to comfort him. He only felt the tears when they sunk into Fenrir’s fur, and then he hid. The dog whimpered.

“I’m fine, boy,” he whispered, head in the crook of Fenrir's neck. It smelt of unwashed dog but it was cosy. “Just fine.”

He stayed like that until the train halted at their stop and then walked home. Sat on his kitchen table was a woman, or so he assumed by their curves and long, wavy brown hair, with her back to him. Fenrir galloped up to her side and sniffed at her thigh, catching their attention.

“Hey, boy!” She squealed, prompting him to trot round and face her. Before he could survey her, she began to tickle around Fenrir’s neck and ears. His tail wagged madly and Loki knew he was lost - scratch behind the ears and Fenrir was little more than a preened, fluffy puppy. She looked over her shoulders, noticed Loki and jumped to her feet. He spotted her shoes first; light brown suede boots already stained with snow and still on. Slush footprints had stuck to the floor. He snarled.

"Shoes off." Mumbling, she unzipped her boots and dumped them on the floor, "Put them straight."

"Please, maybe?"

"I don't like disorder."

"Alrighty then," she rearranged her boots, making them stand upright, and then stuck her hand up for him to shake. It was then that she seemed familiar, and he squinted at her. "What?"

"Do I know you?"

“Hi, I’m Darcy Lewis, your sober companion,” she said, holding out her hand. He continued to squint.

“Have we met before?”

“Well, now we have.”

“No, I recognise your face,” he leant in, practically squashed into her face to the point that she pushed him back lightly. Finally, it dawned on him. “You’re a friend of my sister-in-law.”

“I was her intern for several years, yeah, but now I work for your dad, helping you.”

"Weren't you the one caught in the closet with Sif at their wedding?"

“I was, actually.” She answered, with a smug smile, “Now she’s my girlfriend.”

He ignored her and turned to root in the kitchen cabinets above the cooker unit, pulling out a roll of bandages from underneath a box of stale crackers and then wrapping the remainders around his injured hand. When he looked back up, she was still there. She didn't say anything, just clapped her hand against a long, thin box resting on the wall. On it was printed IKEA, “It’s a two person job.”

"I am not putting a bed together with you. There's barely enough room for it either, all you'll fit is the mattress."

"No wonder this room has shitty feng shui.”

"Take it back in the morning and get a discount or something."

"You'll have to do it for me, I can't speak that well."

“Aren’t you meant to be the one helping me?” He asked “Aren’t I the helpless, out-of-control, useless addict and you the help?”

“I’m not ‘the help,” she snapped. “I am a sober companion. Yes, I help you, but sober companionship does require a degree of friendship-”

“Yay! Daddy bought me a friend!” He said, his voice too sickly-sweet, faking a smile so wide his cheeks ached. Then it disappeared and he scowled. “I’m not interested. Go back and tell your employer that your client wants nothing to do with this farce.”

A panicked expression crossed her face and she argued, “Where would I go?”

“Wherever you want! Look at this as a new found freedom, in a foreign country! Americans love those!”

“Not when they’ve no other income!”

“Again, not my problem.”

“OK, I didn’t want to do this, but I have to. Loki, if you refuse this, your father will cut you off outright, meaning no money and no support. Sure, you have a welfare state but there’s one catch: you’ll still have me around, because I am going nowhere without being paid. I can’t go anywhere.”

"Go back to New Mexico, to your girlfriend, to someone that gives a fuck!"

"I can't, we sold our place and she moved in with Thor."

"Why would she do that?"

“You know why,” she sulked, arms folded over her chest. “They’re practically family.”

“Family.” He scoffed, “Don’t ever mention that again. In fact, if you do as I ask, I might behave, go to all the meetings and whatever."

"Dude, your support group is non-negotiable. In fact,” she mimicked his accent, dragging the vowel, “my 'contract' is 'legal binding', so you have to - you'll miss a month's allowance if you do. But if you help me take back the bed, I'll help you edit the video."

"I don't need help-"

"You photoshopped devil horns onto Jane and cut Thor's face out. I know, you left your laptop on."

"Don't touch my laptop again." Darcy nodded, and finally Loki sighed, "Unless I explicitly allow you to do so."

"Ok doke!”

"I need a drink," he muttered. As he walked to the door, Darcy appeared before him, blocking the exit, with a piece of paper in hand and began to read, “Paragraph 3, Section A dictates that 'Loki Laufeyson hereby renounces his previous habits with regard to the frequenting of bars, the purchasing of illegal/illicit narcotic substances, and his constant joblessness.' Legally binding."

His chin dipped as he thought it over, before he stormed out with the angry promise that, "I'm going to sue."

"You don't have the money," she argued, stopping him mid-storm. "You don't accept this, I get it. It sucks. But just come inside, we'll order pizza, I’ll pay, and tomorrow, we'll start again, OK?"

"Fine," he grunted, marching back in. He slammed the door behind him.


	4. That Happened

Thor groaned as his back smacked the cold concrete, and Sif’s knee landed on his chest with its’ full strength behind it. She leant down until her face was pressed to his, squinting at him.

“You’re not all there, are you?”

“I-”

“Hm.” She stepped off and stood with her back to him a little way from him, stretching. He stared up at the ceiling of his basement as she said, “I prefer to spar with opponents who are there, Thor, people worth fighting with, I-... I’m sorry."

"It's alright."

"But… but this is what happens with people like him. You give them chances and they never take them.”

Thor sat up, crossed his legs and, looking at her back, asked, “Do you think that I should give up on him?”

Her head inched back a touch, her profile just in sight, and sighed. “I know you won’t, but yes.”

“Well, I won’t.” He asserted. “I don’t want to. I miss him. It’d be nice to talk face to face, like normal brothers do. Sif, it’s important to me.”

“And you’re important to me, to so many people, and too important to waste your time going after people who wouldn’t do the same for you.”

Her phone then vibrated, and she went to pick it out of her hoodie pocket, adding, “However, if you ever get through to him, tell him that if he hurts you, he answers to me.”

“Sure thing,” he mumbled. He watched her as she leant against the wall, scrolling, and then as she froze and her eyes widened.

“Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“He’s done it. He actually did it.”

“How do you know?” He asked, getting to his feet and standing beside her.

“Darcy, she just texted me.” Still in her hand, it vibrated again. “Along with this.”

She showed him the picture Darcy had sent, of her and Loki stood in line at a supermarket. A mega-watt smile lit up Darcy’s face, while a visible slice of Loki’s face carried a scowl.

“Him?” Sif grumbled, “She got him?”

“What?”

“Look, I didn’t tell you this because I didn’t want to hurt you, but Darcy is a sober companion. It was the best job she could get, and who she got was clearly Loki.”

“Why didn’t she say?”

“Because it’s your father, that’s why,” she answered back, switching apps to Youtube. “Your username is vloginsons, right?”

Thor nodded. As she typed, she asked, “Should we wait for Jane?”

“I’ll show her later.”

“OK, you ready for this?”

“Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?”

Sif bit the inside of her lip then held her phone sideways as it loaded.

The first shot was of Loki, asleep with his arms wrapped around Fenrir. Last time Thor had seen that dog, he’d barely reach his knee when sat and could hide in Thor’s cupped hands. Now, he dwarfed Loki. Behind the camera there was a familiar giggle and Loki awoke, slowly opening one eye.

Through gritted teeth, he said, “I will rip out your spleen and eat it.”

“Good morning, princess! Come on, show the world how pretty you look!”

“Why?”

“We’ll get more fangirls.”

“Ugh, fuck off,” he mumbled, rolling over, and Fenrir draped himself over Loki like a blanket.

“He hasn’t changed,” Sif noted as Thor watched the video transition from him sleeping to Loki in front of the camera, sat on a battered, cream sofa, as always knees wide apart. With the hint of a smile, he began.

"Good morning, Thor, it’s Wednesday morning here and this… might be the biggest mistake I’ll ever make.”

At first, he did look as if nothing had changed - he wore an almost eternal uniform of black, with subtle gold and emerald touches, and his hair was still long, although now tied back. Then Thor noticed the changes. Loki was thinner, and the half moons beneath his eyes had deepened, and his skin was sallow, almost grey. He seemed to be deteriorating, crumbling into the walls around him. His lips were dry and he’d bitten at where the skin had cracked.

Two snow white scars ran along Loki’s cheekbone and above his brow, the sight invoking the last time they’d seen one another. The same feeling of powerlessness that had gripped him then now haunted him, as though seeing it anew. The right side of Loki’s face had been scarred and bruised and bandaged, his arm cast and slung, but it was his expression that killed Thor the most. In one look, Loki was so much, and all of it - all the hatred, wrath and betrayal that screamed at him; all the quiet longing, pleading, and pity - made Thor feel completely worthless as he had forced himself to walk away.

On screen, Loki took a sharp breath through bared teeth, eyes flickering left to right, and then continued, “But, um. I figured I’d start by updating you as well because, really, I see your nice house, your wholesome family, and so I raise you…Fenrir!”

On cue, the dog popped its head on the armrest, almost grinning.

“And this.” The shot scanned his apartment as he spoke over it. “So, this is where I live.”

A kitchen unit made up of shelves, a fridge and a cooker had been crammed into the far-left corner beneath a row of cabinets; behind them to the right stood the bathroom door, decorated with a long, indeterminable stain; and a pace or two in front of it was a kitchen table to fill the gulf between the kitchen and a mattress marked out as Darcy by the oversized print cardigan draped over rumpled covers, with Loki’s bed almost touching hers.

The film cut back to Loki so seamlessly that Thor had to admit, Loki’s editing was a lot better than his own.

“We also have Darcy,” he sighed. As if on cue, Darcy leapt right into his lap. Fenrir followed, flinging his front legs over Loki’s shoulders. He must have thought it was a thing. Loki scowled as the two smiled at him. “Internet, this is Darcy, my… acquaintance.”

“Hi!” She shouted, waving like a loon. “Hi, Sif! Love you!"

“How romantic,” Loki muttered. Darcy rolled off him and disappeared from shot. Thor heard Sif growl under her breath, and chuckled. Loki continued. “Well, that’s enough of that. I’m fine here. It might be dank and cramped, but I am fine.”

He lied, always did.

“And, contrary to your belief, I’m aware of your existence; I watch your films. It’d seem that I particularly like seeing you be beaten.”

Sif laughed then, as dry as sand and closer to a scoff.

“Yes, my brother the stunt ‘performer’. You see, internet, I went to study music and he pursued stunts. Guess which one of us has a job. Of course, I’m not bitter at all,” he lied. “Well, that’s it for now. Oh, you remembered my birthday, that happened. You’re still quite simply the biggest idiot I’ve ever met, but…. Let’s see you beat this.”

“Are you crying?” Sif asked. Thor just shrugged.

“Well, that was… surprising.”

“Are you coming ‘round to the idea, Sif?”

She rolled her eyes and flashed him a smirk, “Perhaps, you big dork.”


	5. Serenity Prayer

In the passing day, he’d learnt many things about Darcy Lewis.

Observance was always a talent of his, but it proved to be a double edged sword around her. The sum of everything he'd observed amounted to more than he'd noticed about any other person in the past year, but the big picture didn't irritate him as much as the little things angered him.

Chiefly, Darcy Lewis was a glutton. On the first, after been badgered into ordering more food in one sitting than he’d seen in the past year, she managed to inhale both pizzas she’d ordered, a gargantuan sack of leftover Cheetos she’d been scarfing pre-, mid-, and post-flight, and a side of chicken strips she’d added to the order because pizza, as she’d predicted, did not satiate her. He imagined nothing would. Alongside such greed, she was a slob, who wiped greasy pizza residue on her jeans and let strings of tepid cheese drip down her chin as she gorged.

And she held no respect for boundaries. When she’d dared to brush her oil-tainted fingertips on the once pristine neck of his guitar, he’d snapped. He slid from his seat and flung himself across the room, and the whole outburst prompted her to raise her hands in surrender and step away.

At night, she snored. She snored, and snored, and snored and did not stop. The noise rumbled from her throat and out her nose, a low growl more suited to a man, and then it boomed. Like a mushroom cloud, the sound reverberated across the flat. The noise continued into the early hours and his only escape was to bury his head in the sand of his pillows like an ostrich and wonder how Sif coped.

Inversely, however, she was hyperactive as soon as day broke, cheerfully claiming immunity to time zones. The whole day that followed was spent catering to her whims; returning the bed she mistakenly bought, buying groceries - although she saw to it that Fenrir was , she also loaded the basket with cupcakes topped with neon green icing (“I'm going to need them, trust me.”) - and pestered him with constant and invasive questions, at the worst times. In the middle of the household products aisle, she turned and asked, “So, what's with you and your dad?”

“No.”

“Really? Nothing?”

“No.”

“You gonna say anything else?”

“No.”

They left it there. By the time he came home, the urge for a drink or a cigarette or something at least was so loud, screaming and smacking its’ palm against the glass at the back of his mind. It stomped its way through his head until he needed to taste nicotine, until he was scouring the cupboards, behind the sofa, and through drawers for just one pack. But the search proved fruitless.

“Darcy, have you seen any cigarettes?” He asked. She was filling the shelves he’d just uprooted with their shopping, but froze when he spoke. Her arms came up and shoulders tensed. Her fingers knotted into one another. Her face bunched up, lips drew thin, and she took a deep breath before swiftly mumbling, “Icleanedyourapartmentout.”

“Excuse me?”

“I cleared the place of everything I could find, that you shouldn’t have.”

He nodded, letting himself sink into the news. His hands tensed.

Through gritted teeth, he replied, “How kind of you.”

In response, she stared at him in shock and he noticed one final thing: her eyes were huge, a pair of preternaturally large globes the size of crystal balls that surpassed thick framed glasses, and they reminded him of something.

When he was in his teens and Odin made him see a psychiatrist, there was a large pot of glass stones placed in the centre of a coffee table in the waiting room; they were many and round and piled together as though multi-coloured sand. He would rest his hand in it, feel the grains run through his fingers, and relax. She reminded him of the anxiety he felt, of his guilt.

Even now those strange, giant eyes stared at him, sat on the sofa with Fenrir resting in the crook of his lap while he carefully painted his finger and toenails coal black.

"Stop it.”

"Stop what?"

"Staring at me."

She shrugged, "I'm waiting to see if you're ready to go."

“Where?”

“Support group.”

He flung his head back and groaned.

“I don’t want to.”

“You have to.” He didn’t argue back, and she pressed ahead, “You ready yet?”

"I'll be ready when I'm ready."

"Hey, d'ya think you could do mine someday?"

"I could."

"So will you?"

"No."

"Are you done yet?"

"Almost."

“Oh, come on!” She whined, “We’re going to be late!”

“Fine!”

With time enough for one thin layer of eyeliner, he padded around the apartment on the balls of his feet while the varnish dried and while Darcy rushed, tossed him his coat, wound a scarf around his head (as if he needed it). They made it out of the door with their shoes half on, rushed down the stairs and round the back, where Darcy’d parked.

There were never many cars in the small yard behind his building, reserved for residents, thus hers stood out. It resembled a cube of compacted waste, with a coat of rusty reddish-brown applied to it.

“This it?”

"I'll drive," she said, opening the car. He slumped in the passenger seat and propped his feet up on the dashboard and, when Darcy scowled, flashed a smug grin.

"Feet down," she commanded. "It's a rental."

"You can always clean it."

Grunting, she fell into the driver's seat and started the car, then drove off. While the vehicle rattled its way ahead, the radio blared the type of upbeat, giddyingly optimistic top 40 hits he loathed. He grumbled, causing Darcy to glance at him.

“I could sing,” she told him, smirking. She had already begun to drum the beat on the steering wheel.

“Don’t sing.”

“ _Entertain my faaate_ ,” she sang, loudly and out-of-tune, “ _Entertain my faaaaaaaaaate-_ ”

“Stop.”

“ _ENTERTAIN MY FAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE-_ ” He smacked the off switch and the radio went silent, “Hey!”

“Just drive.”

“Asshole,” she mumbled. After driving a little out of town, she winded down some road and pulled up in front of a school building. It was modern, and large, with all its lights on. The windows glowed, and light radiated across the pavement.

He curled up into the seat.

“Come on,” Darcy prompted, in a voice meant to soothe, “Look, I’m coming in with you. I spoke to the guy beforehand, and he said I should come in with you for today, ‘cause apparently it’s the beginning for everyone. Some oil magnate is funding it.”

“And they got a school building?”

“It looks nice.”

“Ugh,” he grunted, and undid his seatbelt. She followed him as they got out of the car and walked into the building, where a helpful paper sign tacked to the doorway indicated that ‘Addicts Anonymous is to your left and on the first floor, in room 9.’

Room 9, as it turned out, was a history classroom by day, pseudo-church/rehab by night. All the desks had been shoved against the walls, which were plastered with old propaganda posters, and all the chairs had been arranged into a circle. He and Darcy took seats in the corner. At twelve o’clock was the group leader, a tall middle-aged man in a printed jumper. But Loki’s attention only rested with him for a moment.

Sat beside the leader was a young woman, the first thing about whom he noticed was her shoes – thick black boots printed with faded pink roses and tied with ribbons the colour of flushed cheeks. Somehow, they struck him as odd first, then he caught sight of the rest of her.

She wore a beret the same colour of night, tucking tiny waves of dark brown hair into it, with a long jacket to match, black and grey shirts layered upon one another, and a skirt in so many shades of heather, granite, slate and stone that at first glance it appeared ripped. It was difficult for him to put his finger on it, but she seemed to be straddling so many different ideals - old and new, masculine and feminine, neat and unkept - that it made her intriguing. As if she weren’t already; what was someone like her doing here?

As he stared, she spotted him, making a point of locking eyes with him. She had a round face, high cheekbones, tiny eyes - obviously of Asian descent - and skin the colour of weak champagne, and just as light. Then it occurred to him, how small and dark her eyes were. When she smiled at him, the corners of her eyes crumpled beneath full cheeks, so much so that all he could see was their starlit darkness, nebulaic and intimidating yet so beautiful. It was like staring into an abyss, yet he felt safe.

Then the leader stood, and so did she.

“My name is Kåre and I came up with this group,” he said. He motioned to her on his right, “And this is Sigyn, my lovely assistant.”

It earned him a gentle, embarrassed laugh and a soft shake of her head, as her hand moved to cover her mouth, unable to hide a subtle curve to her lips or the swell of blossom pink in her cheeks.

When her hand moved away, she knotted her fingers together and began, a little shyly, “So yeah, I’m Sigyn, I’m a nurse and I specialise in rehabilitation and mental health; Kåre and I work together at both this and a programme in Akershus. Uh, that’s it, I guess.”

She sat and let Kåre take over. He spoke with his hands, his motions becoming grander and loftier with each new idea.

“Many of you will be aware of the concept of a gateway drug, am I correct? That from there, one path leads to another, and another, and another. Now, other groups look to separate, to categorize your addiction and distil it into one certain drug, then focus on that. That's not how I work.”

God, he was pretentious. Loki glanced around the room, observing how others reacted. One, a shrunken, misshapen stick figure of a person, gazed at Kare as though he were God and the rest were no better, even Darcy. But Sigyn seemed to be holding something back.

“What we need is the seed, not the roots or tree.” God, it was nauseating. “Addiction is not a choice. It is an illness, developed from an infection, and this is not recreation, but self-medication.”

Somehow, Loki found himself wondering how often he’d been aware of ‘recreationally’ lighting a blunt, shooting up or mainlining pills, and the deeper he thought, the less often it seemed. Instead, it became a quest for a higher form of self at the bottom of a bottle, for the better, more powerful him. Sometimes he even found that form, losing himself in the process, but would soon let it slip. The moment he came crashing down was agony; in comparison, the after effects were just white noise.

“So, for now, we’ll go around the group and introduce ourselves, how long we’ve been using, etc.”

On Sigyn’s right, the first sharer stood. Their hands shook as they spoke, of neglect, of abuse, of humiliation, of an endless void within their soul, and Loki had to fight his yawns. The circle of sharing counted down one by one until it came to Darcy, and she got to her feet.

“Hey, I’m Darcy and yeah, I’m from the States. I’ve been told you’ll all understand me?” A murmur of agreement met her, “Phew. Well, I’m actually clean and always have been but my job involves this guy here,” her hand slapped down his shoulder and he tensed.

“Basically, I try and teach His Majesty how to be human.”

The group laughed, even the leader. Next to him, Sigyn smiled.

“Your Highness?”

“My name is Loki,” he snapped, making Kåre squirm. Loki smirked.

“OK, God of Mischief, can you tell us anymore? How long have you been using, for example?”

“Nine years.”

“Why?”

“Because I could.”

“And nothing else?”

“Why would I need another reason?”

“OK, moving on,” he said swiftly, and the next person got up. When the clock had counted down, the group stood, and as he’d predicted, took the hands of those next to them, bowed heads in prayer and recited that age-old mantra. He did as well, but stuck to his own:

_God, grant me the serenity to get out of this._

Then they dispersed. Many took the time to go up to Kare, shake his hand, tell him how much of a visionary he was. On the other hand, Loki occupied the time that Darcy wasted by talking to others with watching Sigyn as she neared the door

Then he took off after her until they left the building. She stopped in the middle of the pavement, turned and asked, “Do you mind?”

Her voice was low but he couldn’t find one trace of anger in it, or in her face.

“‘From which stars have we fallen to meet each other here?’”

“Nietzsche,” she answered. “Philosopher, glorified by the likes of Hitler. Not a renown pick-up artist.”

Well, she knew her philosophy. Normally, he'd have her swooning, or interested at the very least; most think that he made the line up, the idiots. But usually, what he was looking for and what he got was a quick fuck. This was… it wasn’t that.

"I'm only trying to ask you out."

"I know, I can tell. But not every girl wants a boyfriend."

"Boyfriend? Who said boyfriend?” He counted quickly, “I was thinking we'd go out, do something as friends, have a good time - no romantic implications."

Sigyn laughed, baring her teeth. When she next looked up at him, her brows curved inwards, giving the impression that she pitied him.

“Don’t be that guy, alright?”

“What?”

“The sort who thinks that a weird chick at a support group will solve all his psychological problems,” she explained. “I can see it in your eyes - that hope, right there. It’s sweet, but misguided. Not that I don’t find you attractive, but a girl won’t fix your addiction, your depression, your finances or your exceptionally low self esteem. You’re a hurt man, Loki. You don’t need me.”

“I’d settle for your number, if you’re feeling charitable.”

She sighed, then walked up to him and pressed a scrap of paper into his palm, closing his fingers around it.

“I guess I’ll see you around then, won’t I?”

Before she could walk off, he asked, "You know, I was wondering about something. Where are you from?"

Her top lip curled and her left brow leapt up.

"Romsås," she answered, thoroughly indignant. Scoffing, she turned on her heel and strutted away, vanishing behind a corner. Rooted to the spot, he watched.

“Who was that?” Darcy asked, walking up behind him. He didn’t turn to face her. “Lo?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Was that Sigyn?”

“Let’s go.” He marched back to the car, Darcy trailed, and they headed home. At a red light, he turned to Darcy and said, “I’m going to ask you something - and don’t laugh - and you must answer truthfully, alright?”

“Dude, fire away.”

“How do you get a girl to like you?”

She stifled a giggle, then answered, “Oh my God, you’re in love with Sigyn, aren’t you?”

“No!”

“You so are. If not that, you’re definitely attracted.”

“Just answer the damn question.”

“You really want my advice?”

“Well, you’re so insufferable that I assume you have some other methods of persuasion.”

She laughed, “In my experience, get high together and then go down on her, so she'll think you're amazing.”

“Amazing,” he drawled. “Any other tips?”

“Uh, don’t do it? Lo, you’re not in a position to be in a romantic relationship with someone. You can’t support them, you can’t support yourself, and you can’t provide a loving environment for them.”

“I want to date her, not adopt her.”

“Well, if you want to date someone, you have to be able to have good relationships with people.” She retorted, “Why don’t you two be friends? It is possible, you know. I was with Ian for a few months and then we broke up, but we talked it through and said, ‘We still like each other. We still want to be friends.’ The key is communication.”

“Ian?”

“Oh, he was during YO.”

“YO?”

“Year Out,” she explained, and he grunted in response. “The point is, if you like someone, the relationship you have with them doesn’t have to be defined by expectations.”

He slumped deeper into the seat, sulking, “Whatever.”

“But you want to define it, don’t you?”

“I said ‘whatever,’” he lied.

“Look, if you’re really interested in a relationship with her, then be slow. Don’t expect too much or pin too many hopes on it, because if it fails, you’re more likely to go back to your old habits. I should ward you off but seeing as you’re deadset, I might as well advise you.”

Then her phone lit up, ringing out. It shimmed across the cupholder as it vibrated.

“Hey, could you get that?” He obliged, reading the message from Sif on screen, ‘Video updated x.’ “Who is it?”

“Your provider,” he lied, slipping the phone back. It was too late in the day to bother with the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you with a life lesson: always do your homework on time, kids. Besides that, if you liked this, then kudos/comment are always appreciated!


	6. It's A Date!

The next day was different. He awoke late, around one in the afternoon, feeling as if he’d learnt something from the previous night - not about caring for one’s self or learning to live with addiction, not at all; but he’d gained a strange new grip on life, influenced by the shrewd glare of a beautiful woman. One who’d mentally kicked him from his stupor. Life didn’t feel entirely worth living but going after, even getting, what he wanted seemed fun. Who was he to say no?

So, there were necessary steps towards that end. First was to shower, second was to make himself presentable - much easier said than done - and the next was to make his escape.

And all that stood in his way was Darcy. Darcy, comatose and sprawled on her mattress. Her supposed immunity had worn off and the world outside could not rouse her. Perfect.

He fished out her number from yesterday’s jeans and stole Darcy’s phone from her pocket, along with her purse for good measure, then dialed and leant against the coffee table. His fingers drummed against it as he waited for the dial tone to cut. Then the line picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Oh, it's you,” she replied flatly.

“Restrain yourself, please.”

“And you rang me at work for what exactly?”

“Let me take you out to lunch.”

“Now?”

“No, of course not; in an hour or two. If it suits you, that is.”

 _What was that?_ A voice snarled from the back of his mind. He wondered if he'd spoken aloud, as the next thing he heard was her, perplexed;

“That's odd.”

“Hmm?”

“You don't strike me as the type to ask if it suits anyone.”

“I'm not. I make exceptions for pretty girls, however.” Again, it demanded: _What are you doing?_

“Have you asked your handler?”

“Well, yes. Her answer was a resounding snore, which I assume means yes.”

“Loki...”

“C'mon, it's on me. Free lunch, how about it?”

Stop. What are you doing?

“Can you even afford it?”

“I have my ways.”

“But I met you yesterday.”

“And you’re still talking to me. Miraculous, isn't it?”

“OK, I give in,” She sighed. “Come down to the hospital, I'll meet you there, and I'll choose where we go, alright?"

"Fine by me."

"Oh, and one more thing: are you going to spend the rest of your life just wearing people down until you get your way?”

“That's the plan.”

“Charming,” she quipped. “See you then, I guess.”

Well done, you've caved and reached out for human contact. How does that feel?

Loki flung his arms out in a long stretch, leant back even further. He was weightless, close to something like relieved, as though the idea of asking her out had actually bore down on him. It abated by the time he reached the door.

“Where do you think you're going?”

He glanced over his shoulder to see Darcy on her feet, hands on hips and feet wide apart, assuming a position of responsibility that, given her size, lopsided glasses and messy hair, made him want to laugh.

“I'm going to take Fenrir for a walk, and y'know. I thought I'd get out early, enjoy the fresh air. It might even make me feel better.”

“Then why is my purse in your pocket?”

“Is it?” He asked, padding his sides. The weight of her purse dragged his left hand pocket down and thumped against his side, the rattle of coins tolling like church bells. Eventually, he pulled it out, “I have no idea how that got there. Maybe you left it?”

She rolled her eyes, “You're so full of shit.”

“I'm serious!”

“And I'm a Size 4.”

“Shoe?”

“Ha ha,” she said, voice drier than sand. “Where were you going anyway?”

“Like I said, I'm going to take Fenrir for a walk.”

“Alright, I believe you,” she lied. She scratched the bridge of her nose when she did, which gave her right away. “But you need to do something first.”

“... Is it a drug test?”

“A little more strenuous, for you at least.”

“Ooh, 'strenuous' is quite a big word for you. Best watch yourself.”

“Uncalled for.” She pulled a seat out for him and shoved the laptop in front of him. The browser was open to Youtube, to Thor's video, and Loki groaned.

“Why are you still pushing this?”

“I told you already, you'll need your family around while you recover.”

“I told you not to say the word 'family' like that.”

“Isn't Thor your family?”

Loki didn't answer. He couldn't; he was already lost in thought, considering to what extent that was actually true. He always felt he was different, but to discover he was adopted still shocked him, somewhat. His ties with Odin were untangled by the next morning but to push away his mother and Thor was difficult. Thor had been a brother and friend, and the two of them had shared their lives among each other. He meant so much to him but at the same time, he was nothing. All he represented - what remained of their family, their friendship, their childhood, whatever was left of the love and admiration Loki had felt - was worth forgetting. But he was his brother as well.

“We can leave Odin aside, but you need Thor. And Thor needs you. He's trying really hard, he wants you to be a part of his life and be part of yours.”

“Ugh, you're so disgustingly saccharine.”

Darcy smiled, “But I'm right.”

Loki pursed his lips.

“C'mon, say it.”

“You might be. Might be, so whatever.” He smacked 'Enter', “Fine.”

In the video, Thor narrated as he drove, camera in the hands of his passenger. The sun hadn't quite risen and an amber light washed over him, splitting stagnant blue shadows.

“Good morning Loki, it's Thursday, and today I leave for London because work. It seems last minute to you, but for me it's not. So, my co-pilot today is Sif-”

“Hey,” Sif added, brightly.

“-and we're en route to Toronto, then to London and then we meet our friend Ian and rest up before working tomorrow. For those wondering, Jane is working in DC and took Frida with her, so I've been with Sif all week.”

“And I've kicked his ass all week,” she bragged, laughing. Loki noticed Darcy grin.

“Best opponent I’ve ever had.”

The shot switched to them walking through the terminal, the camera now in Thor’s hands and the picture trembling while he spoke;

“We just checked in and went through security, and now we’re going to the gate and I’m vlogging ... in motion!”

With a slight jiggle of the camera, he laughed. Behind him a passer-by stared.

“Hey!” He called back to them, even waved too. Sif smiled as she rolled her eyes. God, he’s so embarrassing, Loki thought, watching as the video cut again to a lingering shot of Sif sat across from Thor, cross-legged with a paper coffee cup balancing on her knee and her passport tapping the other, as Thor narrated;

“I didn’t really want to get caught for being suspicious in an airport but I wanted to keep filming, therefore Sif’s gonna be the most interesting thing here while I talk. Because surprise, I’ve been thinking, about distance. About how absence makes the heart grow fonder and so on but also how I've spent the majority of my life in suitcases and apart from the people I love in order to do what I love. Mostly however, I've been missing you. That's the reason I'm doing this. Whatever comes with it, good or bad, is worth it.”

“Awww-”

“Shut up.”

Oh, and it's also worth how awe-inspiring this is,” he added, cutting to the sight of the sky from his window. Blanketed in a vivid shade of light blue, it flowed in a steady current, parallel to layers of thick cloud, as the plane progressed. Loki had forgotten the last time he saw such a sight, the last time he concentrated on the view. When they were younger, they’d argue over who got the window seat and eventually, it went to whomever was best behaved. By the time he’d earned that title, the novelty had worn off.

“Then we landed, went through customs and baggage claim, and found Ian.”

Thanks to Thor’s hamfisted attention to detail, Loki saw only blurred snapshots of Ian, alias ‘Darcy’s ex’, as Thor captured their way through London. However, from what he saw, Ian was a plain, somewhat gangly, awkward young man with a toothy smile, which he often offered in shy surrender to Thor’s booming personality. Oh, and he was the type to drum against the steering wheel; Loki never liked those sorts of people. His short camera time ended abruptly when the video cut to a final, still shot of Thor against a red brick wall.

“That’s it from me for now, although I have to add my love to everyone who’s stuck by, even though we two don’t see eye-to-eye. Although I’ve noticed that you’re proving to be more popular than me. The girls must think you’re better-looking. Loki, I’ll see you when I see you.”

Loki slammed the laptop closed, ignoring Darcy hissing at him, and tersely asked,

“Can I go now?”

“You weren’t taking Fenrir for a walk, were you?”

“As always Sherlock, your powers of deduction are mindblowing.”

“Where are you really going?”

“I’m meeting Sigyn in an hour.”

She cackled, “12 hours too much for you?”

“It’s 2pm.”

“Oh boy. Wait, shouldn’t you be focusing on something more productive, like getting a job?”

“I have six months left to do so and I live in a fairly stable economy,” he reasoned. “And look at it this way: instead of arguing with me, you could be sleeping.”

“You make a compelling argument.”

The dog whimpered, head turned to Darcy. He began to pad a cautious path over to Darcy. “Oh, don’t choose the American.”

“C’mere, boy! I have treats!”

He broke into a gallop and finished at her feet, tail wagging as he looked up at her, her hands tickling the fur around his neck.

“Fine, I see how it is,” Loki said, opening the door. “Well, more for me.”

Sif had decided to stay in, as the jet lag had hit her harder this time around, when the boys took off in search of a pub to unwind in. They found themselves leant over the bar with Thor goading Ian into flirting, or at least talking, with one of the young ladies there; the kind of thing you'd do with a younger brother. But Loki would never hang around with him - from the age of ten, or even nine, Loki had shunned their company and preferred to lock himself up in his room. From there on out, they’d interacted sporadically throughout the years, until recently. And even that was spotty.

Thor pointed to a young woman sat opposite them, with a full figure resting against the counter-top. Ian blushed rose-red.

“I-I, um... She's not really my type.”

“But she looks like Darcy,” Thor reasoned. “Brunette, busty, bright – your type.”

“Darcy was more of an exception, you know? She's... well, she went for me, not the other way around.”

“Oh, really?” He asked, with a sly smile, “Because I distinctly remember you following her around like a lost, lovesick puppy for the whole week.”

“I-! … I might have.”

“You see my friend, she's your type.”

“Not everyone has a 'type.' Besides, you've known me almost two years, and only seen me date one person. You know next to nothing about my... about my, er, romantic history-”

“Saying like that makes me think that there is no 'romantic history'. With the exception of Darcy.”

Ian shrugged, but his blush deepened, “What’s it to you?”

“You live alone with three cats, that’s what it is to me. You’re lonely, Ian.”

“I happen to like my cats,” he grumbled, looking away. Beside him, a youth sidled up to the bar and ordered, their voice unintelligible. But it was enough to get Ian’s attention. Thor, however, was still trying to place their gender, as they had a slim, somewhat feminine face, but closely cropped hair and wore a heavy, high-necked shirt beneath a leather jacket.

“Can I buy you a drink?” asked a voice from beside him, one belonging to a young, handsome man, who managed to match Thor’s height. However, he was slim, toned, and his dark eyes shone. He smiled at Thor with a quiet but firm confidence in his expression, and said, “Hi, I’m Oliver.”

“Thor,” he held out his hand to shake, but angled it just so that his wedding ring glinted in the light. Oliver’s eyes widened.

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry-”

“It’s alright,” Thor said quickly, “You were doing quite well, honestly. I liked your confidence.”

He blinked, “Confidence?”

“I’m married, not dead.”

In the dim light, he saw the man turn a soft shade of dusky pink, his personality seemed to have shrunk. “Have a-a good evening.”

Thor beamed as Oliver shuffled away, “You too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so bad at updating omg i am so sorry idek


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